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Jit Thurstons

BEYOND the voices of Leicester Square there is peace.
It is in Thurston's Billiards Hall, which I visited for
the first time, the other afternoon, to see the final in
the Professional Championship. Let me put it on
record that for one hour and a half, that afternoon, I
was happy. If Mr. Thurston ever wants a testimonial
for his Billiards Hall, he can have one from me. The
moment I entered the place I felt I was about to enjoy
myself. It is small, snug, companionable. Four or
five rows of plush chairs look down on the great table,
above which is a noble shaded light, the shade itself
being russet coloured. Autumn to the cloth's bright
Spring. Most of the chairs were filled with comfort-
able men, smoking pipes. I noticed a couple of women
among the spectators, but they looked entirely out
of place, just as they would have done among the fat
leather chairs of a West End club. I had just time to
settle down in my seat, fill and light a pipe myself,
before the match began.

It was between Davis and Newman, both of whom
have held the championship. They suddenly appeared,
in their shirt sleeves and holding cues, and we gave
them a friendly round of applause, which they
acknowledged with something between a bow and a
nod The marker arrived too. He deserves a word to
himself. He was an essential part of the afternoon,